Too Fast?
by scrub456
Summary: Crowley's not a complete idiot. *just a bit of missing scene/Crowley's contemplation after the failed apocalypse on the bus ride from Tadfield to London. Also, the cover art for this story is a bit of my own doodling/cartooning*


Crowley's not a complete idiot.

Now, let's not be hasty.

He _is_ an idiot.

After the apocalypse fizzled out with an unimpressive puff of ozone, Aziraphale's indictment of incompetence against them both was on point. 6,000 years of things happening just because he believes they will, of using demonic miracles to cover both their arses, and (once the technology was developed) literally phoning it in, does not necessarily translate into wisdom (neither does the accumulated knowledge of multiple millennia, but that's not what we're talking about.) Rather, it proves an impressive knack for creativity and self-preservation, the likes of which are unprecedented in any circle of hell, and at least 83% of humanity (of course that's a fabricated statistic, but let's allow him this one, yes?).

And emotions. Pesky buggers, they are. It isn't the having of them that makes him an idiot (it's not his fault he has them, he's a demon for someone's sake. How the swan dive from heaven managed to singe his angelic glory right off but managed to leave him with the steaming heap of gooey… _stuff_ settled right in the center of his chest he'll never understand. Ineffable. Bah.). No, it's the corresponding reactions that inevitably confirm his certified idiot status.

A demon smiling at an angel. What was he thinking? (He wasn't.) Laughing with an angel. Getting sloshed with an angel. (What?) Agreeing to a work arrangement with an angel. (_What?_) Rescuing an angel. Conspiring against both heaven and hell with an angel. (Seriously, what the actual hell?) Loving an… Ahem. Ah…

Right.

Idiot.

That's him. Anthony J. Crowley, Grade A Idiot.

Except.

He's not a _complete_ idiot. Not always. Sometimes… Well, _sometimes_ he sees with a clarity that seems almost divine. It's startling when it happens, and nearly always triggers his knee jerk emotional idiot reflex.

Nearly always.

As he boards the Oxford, by way of London, bound bus with Aziraphale close at his back (he's so close. Nearer than normal. Isn't he? Yes, definitely. Maybe. Yes. Near enough the proximity feels weighty) Crowley realizes he is on the cusp of the least idiotic moment of his entire existence.

There's no reason for the seat he chooses, he simply walks until he can't anymore. He slumps bonelessly into the uncomfortable seat and watches Aziraphale's reflection in the window. With a surprising lack of hesitation (_is_ it surprising? It's possible only an idiot would be surprised by the angel's unpredictability), Aziraphale slides primly into the seat directly to his right.

Crowley holds his breath as the seat dips. Maintaining bonelessness, he allows gravity to pull him into Aziraphale's personal space, just enough to brush elbows, biceps, a bit of shoulder, before he sways back and away, in order to rest his forehead on the window. He turns his face just enough to see Aziraphale without being caught out.

Aziraphale is ill at ease, restless. It rolls off him in waves and settles as a weight in Crowley's gut. He glances at Crowley, sighs, and quickly sweeps his eyes (they're grey as the sky before a storm, and Crowley doesn't know why that matters) over the other passengers and the driver, before settling in and watching his own fingers fidget with his ring.

The bus lurches forward and they sit in awkward silent contemplation for nearly fifteen minutes before realization strikes.

For 6,000 years he's circled Aziraphale. Watching, always aware. Waiting (for what? He's afraid to give it too much thought). Challenging, teasing, tempting (but oh, two can play those games). And always, _always_ he settles right here, to Aziraphale's left. Always. It's become his place in the universe, hovering on the periphery of the angel's magnetic axis. It's where he belongs.

With one exception.

When Crowley's driving the Bentley, when he's the one guiding their destiny. When Crowley's at the wheel, everything is harried, breakneck, dangerous. The wheels come off. There's screaming and ducking for cover.

And everything is backwards. _Wrong._

Displaced from where they truly belong. Where he fits best on the earth.

It hasn't been too many years, barely multiple decades, since Aziraphale first agreed to ride with him. Then there _was_ hesitation.

And Crowley had gone too fast. Always too damn fast.

But now the Bentley's gone.

It's gone, yet here they are. Moving forward towards the ineffable (blech) fates awaiting them. And the fact that he's not in the driver's seat is not lost on Crowley.

See, Crowley's not a complete idiot.

Just because he's a demon, a denizen of the chaotic void of hell, doesn't mean he hates order. Loves it, actually. Prefers it.

And in this moment of revelation, in the face of certain retribution from their respective head offices, Crowley feels almost at peace. Almost as if they can face anything as long as everyone (i.e. – one angel and one demon, and everyone else can sod right off) is where they're meant to be. He releases a heavy breath and slumps a bit closer to Aziraphale.

Without a word, without even a sidelong glance, Aziraphale's hands still and he releases his own weighted breath. Slowly, glacially, he lets his hand slide from his lap to rest on top of Crowley's hand lying on the seat between them. Crowley's fingers twitch (damn emotional reflexes) against his will, but he stays otherwise still.

Until…

_Until._

Aziraphale's warm calloused fingers close gently around Crowley's. The pressure is light, but it feels monumental.

Crowley may be an idiot, but he's not a _complete_ idiot.

Tentatively he turns his hand in Aziraphale's so they rest palm to palm. His forehead is still pressed to the window, and Aziraphale's head is still bowed. Neither of them breaths until Aziraphale's fingers slide between Crowley's, and they close the grasp as one.

Crowley's idiot instinct is screaming at him to react. To move. Panic. _Anything,_ damn it!

He can't. He won't.

He doesn't know what comes next for them. But it's coming. It's coming, and it's bad whatever it is the combined forces of heaven and hell have in store.

Instead, Crowley closes his eyes. Closes out the entire world. Shuts out everything but the one thing that matters. The single point of contact that means whatever happens, he won't be facing anything alone ever again. He squeezes Aziraphale's hand gently and Aziraphales' thumb brushes lightly over his knuckles.

If all the time they have left is tonight, a few hours, barely a flash in the grand scheme of eternity, this… _this_… Crowley finally looks down at their joined hands, is enough. He watches in wonder as Aziraphale guides their hands up to his mouth and presses a feather light kiss against Crowley's fingers before settling their hands, still entwined, back to the seat between them.

"Too fast, dearest?" It's barely a whisper.

Crowley blinks rapidly and swallows hard.

Maybe he is a complete idiot after all, because he's willing to let this angel set the pace, to take the metaphorical driver's seat in these, the most precious, most precarious moments in all of history.

"No, angel. S'perfect."


End file.
